There is a stream that drifts below me,
Not lingering, it seeps away.
The water creeps around the rocks
and ebbs with mindful swiftness.

I close my eyes and listen;
Ignore the wind that sticks my skin
And if I hear the brook below,
Then perhaps I will return to you.

I crane for twinkling, water moving,
Hear nothing, not at all.
No whisper of the whipping wind
that dances on the water.

Water flows, as infinitely restrained,
As blood that surges from a wound.
It hurts to see; this hurts to hear;
Just nothing, loud as silence.